Wringing of Hands

Child

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new

Whose names you meditate –
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little

Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical

Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.

Sylvia Plath

This post was supposed to be about me climbing sheepishly down off my horse named Melodrama, and telling you that, really, peeps, I’m fine; I just go a little peculiar in the head when I see blood pouring out of my baby.

Of course, that was before he ran across the drive after his Grandad this evening, and fell chin-first onto the tarmac. I’m beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable – and weary – of taking photos of a bloody child with an injured mouth, so I took a couple of myself instead. Harry mainly wanted his Daddy’s shoulder – black-clad this time – to cry/bleed it all out on today, but he stuck with me long enough to make his point.

ann

Ann 2

I’m not an avid photographer-of-self. 15 stone will, you know, occasionally do that to a girl. But these… appeal to me. I have never yet (except poooooossibly the In-Laws-With-Bride group shot at our wedding, by which stage I was getting cold & mizzled on) seen my expression tell a glummer story.

Immediately prior to taking these woeful photos, I endured a 3-hour dinner with my parents. Normally a complete joy to entertain, they omitted to inform me, when I issued the invitation yesterday, that they were not, in fact, speaking to one another. I have a policy of non-socialisation when this occurs, as it upsets me. Today, even John – not the most sensitive human example of emotional litmus – managed to pick up the frosty undertone and the pot-shots. I was just beginning to cheer up as they opened the front door to go, when I saw Harry take his tumble.

An inevitable combination of the 4 deadly Ss – Speed, unSteadiness, Sandals and the Slope sent him smack onto his chin. For some absurd reason, I was supremely confident for a second or two that he couldn’t possibly have bust his lip again, as no-one can possibly sink their top teeth nearly right through their bottom lip 3 times in 5 days. Surely not! The fates are not that unkind to already-mangled and swollen flesh.

They fucking are, you know.

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